


Pushing Me to Become

by MrsNoggin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fingering, Lots of it, M/M, PWP, Smut, Top Crowley (Good Omens), that's about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19477237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: Aziraphale likes to be spoiled. Crowley like to spoil him.





	Pushing Me to Become

**Author's Note:**

  * For [englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/gifts).



> This is literally 1k of luxurious fingering. Inspired by and dedicated to [ englandwouldfalljohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn). Title borrowed from her with permission.

Crowley has beautifully long, dextrous fingers. For years (centuries, if he’s honest) Aziraphale has watched them (gesticulating delicately, caressing a steering wheel, cupping a wine glass) and he has wanted them. Wanted every millimetre of them, every nail and knuckle, to be his. Wanted them for himself, to lick them, to suck them, to feel them on his skin, on him, in him. 

Lust will drive an angel mad. Is driving him mad. 

Crowley strokes softly, the pads of his fingers barely making contact, trailing their way lightly down Aziraphale’s spine. Goosebumps shiver over his skin, fine hairs standing on end, reaching out to try and find the source of sensation. Crowley doesn’t stop at the base of his back, he keeps going, up over the curve of his arse, down the top of his crack, making him arch and spread his legs. Just the simple, careful brush of his fingers has Aziraphale almost rising up on his knees and begging. 

“Sshh.” 

He didn’t even realise he was whining. But he is. Into the pillow, hot damp breath on his face. Vulnerable and naked with Crowley fully booted and suited beside him. Exposed.

He sneaks a peek to the side, watches his demon insert those delectable digits into his own mouth, a long wanton slide. It makes Aziraphale whimper longingly. They are his, should be his, in  _ his _ mouth, pressing down on  _ his _ tongue and collecting  _ his _ saliva in whorls of fingerprint and crease of knuckle. Crowley smiles slyly, knowing exactly what he’s thinking. He hollows his cheeks lewdly, before he drags back out of his mouth, shining and slick, holds eye contact while he moves them out of sight. 

Crowley’s eyebrow quirks as he  _ finally _ touches Aziraphale again, slips wet fingertips down between his cheeks and over his hole. A slick slide of fire over his nerve endings, a sweet tickling ache of needing more. 

“Don’t tease me,” Aziraphale manages. 

“Oh, angel, I could never...” Crowley croons soothingly, leaning in to kiss the curve of his shoulder, grazing it with open teeth,  _ biting _ into the skin there as his finger pushes slowly inside. 

The dual sensation buckles Aziraphale. He turns away to mouth at the pillow, his moan almost a squeal. He feels his body sink the welcome intrusion deeper inside him, feels Crowley’s other fingers at his balls as he hits the end of his reach, Aziraphale’s arse just as hungry for him as his mouth is. Crowley draws it back out, the angel’s body fighting the movement, his toes curling into the sheets. But it comes back again, an exquisite drag of skin inside him, agonisingly slow and sensitive. 

“More. Please.” He needs more. He needs everything. He’s empty and it’s so good.

“In good time.” Crowley mumbles and kisses his shoulder again, smears his mouth down to his neck, stretching his arm along Aziraphale’s back. He thrusts his hand carefully and deliberately, in and out, every movement pulling tiny sobs from Aziraphale. Eventually, after what feels like hours of almost enough, on a withdrawal, he twines his middle finger around his index and pushes two in together. 

It’s tight, and it’s too dry, but only for a second before some wish or will on Crowley’s part eases the way with slippery oil of some sort, gliding him in and sliding him out and Aziraphale is going to combust at any moment. 

“Crowley, please…” He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. His backside rises up on every stroke out, opening the way to welcome him back in before the movement is even at its peak. On the next push in, Crowley slows, idling, before curling his fingers and stroking forwards and Aziraphale’s voice cracks on his exclamation. 

“Yeah,” Crowley murmurs to him, breathing into his neck, “That’s some holy stuff right there, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale’s hands are twisted in the fabric of his pillowcase and his breathing is shaky. The gentle rubbing of Crowley’s fingertips, and the stretch the movement creates around it, builds pressure up inside him, hot and coiling in his pelvis, a sweet pain of pleasure that’s almost unbearable. His cock is pressing down into the bed, not really doing much, except he can feel the pulse of it thrumming through his body. There’s twinges of fire shivering down his legs and Crowley is biting at his shoulder again, pushing him onwards. 

Aziraphale fights for breath, the tight heat shooting out electric fizzes of spiky warmth that build and build and he's not sure this human body can cope with this much power and energy within it. It feels like the explosion brewing will rend him apart, stretch him beyond muscle and skin, but he can't stop letting it grow, can't stop it. 

It peaks, blindingly, as if his whole body can suddenly see colours. It’s a sharp shout of joy in his abdomen, echoing out into the rest of his body, followed by a cascade of heated contractions twitching his muscles and clenching his belly. A whole body climax that's so sweetly strong it punches Crowley’s name out of his mouth in a language of his own accidental creation. 

Crowley understands him though, coaxes him through with careful fingers and soft kisses until it becomes too much and Aziraphale needs everything off of him and out of him right this instant. It only takes an insistent jerk of his shoulder to communicate that, and Crowley retreats, holding his hand still inside him and biting at his own lips. 

Eventually, the final sparks of orgasm eek out of Aziraphale’s body and he sinks into the mattress, with an exhausted sigh and ticcing muscles. Crowley, he can see however, is not exhausted, and he is fighting with his jeans, trying to get his hand in, or his cock out, he can’t quite decide. He settles for cock out, battles his way onto his knees, unavoidably, but accidentally, moving the fingers still within Aziraphale. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry” he rushes as the angel squawks, but he continues up to kneel over him, settling his arse on the back of one plump thigh. 

Aziraphale turns his head to look over his shoulder, just in time to see Crowley, fingers still jammed up Aziraphale’s arse, take hold of himself. He wanks furiously, teeth deep into his bottom lip, chest heaving, desperate, until he climaxes magnificently, with long groans of indulgent bliss and the distinct sound of his come splatting against skin. 

It’s hot and wet, slipping down his crack, and Aziraphale sighs and rolls his eyes indulgently. There's something wonderfully decadent about being completely naked against a fully-clothed body and, while Aziraphale winces at the feeling of those beloved fingers leaving his body, he can't help but rub himself against denim and silk when Crowley lies down beside him. 

"Give me a minute's snooze and we'll go again." Crowley flops an arm over him and snaps his fingers at the mess on Aziraphale's backside. 

Aziraphale nuzzles into his shirtfront and closes his eyes. He can wait a minute. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come find me for further discourse on [ Twitter.](https://twitter.com/KatNoggin)
> 
> Comments and Kudos make my world go round. Please and thank you.


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